


Burn It to the Ground

by Lyrae_Immortalis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (technically) - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Just Sex, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, docks fic, maybe a tiny bit of fluff, post 4x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis
Summary: Despite their intention to put the docks behind them, they can’t bring themselves to leave straight away.





	Burn It to the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long while since I have written smut, but after the last ep of Gotham, I felt inspired. At least this makes up for the disastrous end my previous two docks fics contained. 
> 
> I am also thrilled to say that this is ao3's 2000th Nygmobblepot fic :D
> 
> Happy Reading!

Ed gawks up at him, wide-eyed and slightly startled with half a grin on his face, when Oswald drives him against the hood of their getaway car, hands guiding hips, and fills the space between his splayed legs. 

No words are shared between them, no preamble revolving riddles or any other form of moral ambiguity—not that Oswald would hear them over the thumping pulse echoing in his ears—but a _noteworthy_ calculating expression _does_ pass over Ed’s face as he slowly lowers himself onto his elbows, head tilted back, offering himself like a prize long sought after.

The last thing Oswald can recall, before he finds himself arched over Ed’s lithe body, mouth frenziedly mapping the lines of blood extending from Ed’s collarbone to the corners of his mouth, as if they promised an exit to an inescapable maze, is the briefest appearance of a small pink tongue wetting ruby stained lips. After that, he stops thinking. 

Beneath him, Ed squirms and writhes, hissing out a breath of laughter which coils itself into a high-pitched whine of appreciation the very second Oswald’s hand fists the strands of his hair and firmly _tugs_ him into position, granting himself better access to the column of his throat. 

If you asked Oswald a year ago how he envisioned his first time with Ed taking place, he would have fervently proclaimed words of romance, of something slow, sensual, and private; this far from that. It’s rushed, and dirty, and heated—it’s passion personified. _It’s perfect._

Laid before him on the hood of their car, chest heaving, body vibrating with _need_ , Ed is art: a masterpiece, a drug. One touch and Oswald is intoxicated, addicted, sent into a heady trance.

Actions replace thought. Desire replaces convention. Convention has no part in this. It’s only them— _only them._

Finally being able to indulge in the closeness of their bodies, Oswald tears at the collar of Ed’s shirt and _devours_ the skin of his neck with scraping teeth and a lapping tongue, cleaning away every trace of crimson. All he sees is red, all he _tastes_ is red. Life in its richest form. Blood has never been a source of desire for Oswald, and yet, he can’t seem to get enough of it—enough of _Ed_. 

Ed gasps, and ruts, and arches, betwixt small high-pitched whimpers and heavy breaths. A pair of shaking hands firmly grasps Oswald by the arms, yanking, pulling, dragging him impossibly closer, fingers twisting in the fabric.

“ _Disco vampire,_ ” Ed exhales into the shell of Oswald’s ear, voice breaking with a moan.

Raising his head to glare at him, Oswald is rendered silent, breath caught in the back of his throat, as Ed stares up at him, dilated pupils and a mischievous glint that seems to reflect the corners of his mouth. 

“ _Temptress_ ,” Oswald retorts, a little performatively, stroking a hand down Ed’s side, over the shifting muscles in his stomach, over his leather belt.

Whatever Ed was about to reply with crumbles to stuttered fragments as the heel of Oswald’s palm meets the front of his tented trousers, rendering him a trifecta of immobile, silent, and blissfully breathless, save for the artless roll of his hips. Eyes slipping closed, lashes dusting his cheeks in a display too _beautiful_ for words, Ed writhes and pushes back against him. “ _P-please._ ”

“I will,” Oswald promises, staring at Ed through half-lidded eyes, enraptured by his wanton display. Arousal floods his body as he mindlessly strokes his hand across Ed's bulge—soft, steady, and exploratory, fingers curling, cupping, _stroking_. Ed jerks like a marionette tangled in taut strings, face contorted in pleasure. 

“ _Oswald_ ,” he cries insistently, fingers tightening until his bones creak, and Oswald shudders. Ed is falling apart beneath his hand, piece by piece, stripped of any resistance, or doubt. A hot thrill coils in Oswald’s stomach at the thought of putting him together again. 

“Okay. Okay,” Oswald moans, skin tingling, hopeless to deny him anything he wants. One hand attacks Ed’s belt buckle, whilst the other draws him in for a long overdue kiss. It’s desperate and graceless. Their teeth clash. Their breath mingles. 

Chasing after the concentrated source of blood and _Ed,_ like a man starved, Oswald greedily licks into Ed’s mouth and groans. His mind screams at him to take more, to take everything, everything Ed is willing to give. It isn’t until Ed winces, does Oswald realise that he is squeezing his swollen jaw in a vice-like grip, holding it wide open for better access.

“Ed...forgive me.” Oswald tries to rip himself away, hands held stationary in the air, but Ed has other plans; he wraps himself around Oswald, long slender legs and arms constricting in a snake-like manner, chin hooked over his shoulder. 

“Don’t,” he pleads. His purchase on Oswald’s shoulder is secure, warning him not to move, not to think, and after a few moments filled only with the sound of their laboured breath, Ed inches back. “Don’t stop.”

“You’re injured,” Oswald tries to reason, despite every impulse burning inside of him, calling for him to _simultaneously_ protect, worship, and destroy, Ed, in tandem. “You were—” 

Ed silences Oswald with a bruising kiss, dragging his hips forward with a press of his heels. “I don’t care. Let me celebrate,” he breathes into Oswald’s mouth; a sirens song. 

So, Oswald does.

Pecking a kiss to Ed’s lips, shoving his hand past the barrier of Ed’s trousers, Oswald grips him and bites down on his neck, set on replacing every red blotch with marks of his own. The following cry doesn’t deter him, not with the way Ed thrusts into his hand and babbles in tongues, moaning haplessly and helplessly beneath him, sending a rush of possessiveness up and down Oswald’s spine. They were made for each other.

“More,” Ed cries, eyelashes fluttering as Oswald pivots his wrist.

“More,” Ed begs, snaking his hands underneath Oswald’s clothes, seeking out skin.

“More,” Ed sobs, shaking uncontrollably, body teetering on the edge of completion.

But much to Oswald’s delight, it is the little things that do him in in the end: a small kiss to the curve of his jaw, a soft swipe of their lips, the barely held connection of their unfocused eyes. Brushing their noses together, wanting to taste the depths of Ed’s pleasure the second he surrenders to the entirety of it it, Oswald kisses him, and with one last gentle _stroke_ of his hand, Ed tenses and shouts. His thighs tighten over Oswald’s hips involuntarily as he comes, sobbing with relief, bucking and writhing alike.

Then he snaps back to himself, just like that, just like he wasn’t falling apart at the seams barely thirty seconds ago. Oswald would have remarked on it, but Ed begins to claw at the front of his jumpsuit, overly eager, and he thinks otherwise. 

Digging the fingers of one hand into Ed’s shoulder, Oswald clings to him as a set of nimble fingers slither inside the confines of his jumpsuit, diving down to curl around him. He wishes he could savour each touch and sensation, commit them to memory, but they all blur together: the scent of drying blood coating Ed’s pale skin, the untempered attention of Ed’s hand, the general feeling of having him in his arms after all this time. 

“Oh, _Ed,_ ” he groans, heavily and happily, skin prickling all over. 

Cupping the back of Ed’s head, holding him close, Oswald shivers and thrust into each exploratory touch, hips moving of their own volition. And when he feels that full body rush that tingles _all over_ , Oswald’s back arches, drawn taut like a highly-strung cord, stretched until it snaps, and he comes with a shuddered moan of Ed’s name parting his lips, leaving no doubt to the extent of his pleasure. 

Dropping his nose into the untidy mess that has become Ed’s hair, Oswald inhales deeply, breathing in the clean scent of shampoo and something so distinctively Ed blossoming beneath it. Each breath slows his rapid heartbeat, each breath entwines some small part of Ed inside of him, filling a space Oswald had once tried to empty.

“We should probably leave,” he voices, after a few moments, content to simply stand there, holding a drowsy Ed in his arms, if the situation allowed it.

From his place against his chest, Ed mumbles, indecipherably, and flutters his hand in the direction of the dock.

Oswald frowns. What— _oh._ “You can destroy it later, Ed, however you fancy. We don't need it anymore. But that will be _when_ you have the necessary equipment and _after_ you’ve been seen to by a medical professional. Now, come on—” Oswald taps him on the thigh, and Ed uncoils his legs, “If need be, you can sleep in the car on the way to the safehouse, and I’ll make all other arrangements when we arrive.” 

Nodding jerkily, Ed slides off the hood of the car and climbs inside, asleep in seconds, with Oswald smiling fondly beside him.


End file.
